Or as Olympic marathon champion Frank Shorter said many years ago, when he was a favored to win the Falmouth Road Race but came up flat, “I knew 10-20 steps into it that it was going to be a long, tough day.”

That never made sense. Falmouth is seven miles and 10-20 steps might not even get you over the Eel Pond drawbridge at the start in Woods Hole.

You could be down 3-0 in the first inning, or 3-over-par through four holes, but there's still a long way to go, plenty of time to find a groove.

How could a finely tuned elite athlete like Shorter know so soon into a prestigious race like Falmouth that he was in trouble? Really, 10-20 steps? There were miles to go before he should weep.

Now I know.

I ran the New Balance Falmouth Road Race on Sunday and got squashed like a bug on a windshield at 70 mph.

Let's make something abundantly clear: No way, no how, would I for a moment suggest I can compare myself as a runner to Frank Shorter. That's laughable.

He (presumably) ties his laces one shoe at a time. So do I. After that, all bets are off.

But Shorter is 66 years old now and proudly calls himself a “citizen runner.” A two-time Falmouth champion, he remains as passionate as ever about the sport and perfectly comfortable amid the masses, competing against himself and the clock.

He was on the starting line again Sunday and finished in 1 hour, 3 minutes, 20 seconds, a pace of 9:03 per mile. That's a respectable, honest effort.

I finished in 1 hour, 13 minutes, 58 seconds … 10:34 per mile.

My expectations were to run (OK, jog/slog) faster. I've done Falmouth five of the last six years and felt like I was in shape to be closer to 70 minutes, maybe even see a “68 or 69” coming down the final hill.

My training was good, I thought. I did a couple of encouraging five-mile road races as tune-ups, and a seven-mile training run last week as a final prep. I was rested and hydrated.

But when the gun went off at 9 Sunday morning, it wasn't long before my legs felt like cement, like I was trudging through quicksand.

Just like Shorter all those years ago.

“It happens to everyone,” he said with a laugh, when I found him at the finish and told him my tale. “And there's really nothing you can do about it. There's no way to predict how you're going to feel, or run, on race day.

“It happened to me in Montreal (in the 1976 Olympic marathon). I woke up that morning, put my feet on the floor out of bed, and knew right away.”

Let it be noted that Shorter's “right away” was more than OK. He finished second to East German Waldemar Cierpinski and won the silver medal (to go with gold from Munich in 1972).

So what to do when the spring (relatively speaking) in your step is not there and you're lumbering on a pair of flat tires? Try to relax? Slow down? Find a rhythm? Ah, not so much.

Falmouth's first three miles yesterday were a rollercoaster of punishing, strength-sapping hills; after that was a stretch along the ocean but no day at the beach, a searing sun further draining the tank.

By the time I turned off the water, put a fork in me. I was cooked.

“When you're training,” said Shorter, “and you have one of those days, you try to run a little harder and get through it. It's mental test. Then when it happens in a race, at least you know the feeling, and you know you can get there.”

Get there. What other option is there? In the end, that's what it's about. The finish.

Contact Times sports editor Bill Higgins at 508-862-1151 or bhiggins at capecodonline.com. Follow on Twitter @BillHigginsCCT